sweet spring evening, and enter with them the broken door opening into a miserable room where four or five very young children were crawling about in rags on the stone floor; where the old grandfather was sitting, almost unable to walk, by the scanty remains of fire; and where the mother, scarcely yet recovered from a most severe illness, was busily employed in her household duties, and that mother blind. She had just had a baby whose face she had never seen; poor thing, she would pass her hand over its face, and try to distinguish its tiny features by feeling them. She turned cheerfully towards her visitors when she heard their voices, told them "she was better, she could work a little now, though she was obliged to sit down and rest a good many times, she could not do much at once, but still she was very thankful for being as strong even as she was; the children were well, too, although they had not been able to give them anything but dry bread at every meal for a long time, but she hoped better times were coming, the crops would soon be ripe, and her husband would have more work, but any how it was a great blessing her children had not caught the fever." Does it not shame those who with every comfort around them feel fretful and discontented with some very trifle, who feel some slight disappointment or passing fit of sickness hard to bear, when this poor woman, with her helpless little ones, and no eyes to watch for them, in sickness and in want, could yet turn from all this misery, and find only cause to be thankful that the fearful scourge of fever had not been added to troubles which alone seemed too much for any one to endure? How great, how immeasurably great a trial would blindness alone be, though surrounded by every comfort that wealth and affection could give, while health otherwise remained unimpaired, and no external causes of anxiety existed to disturb or distress, and yet this poor woman suffered from the reverse of all this that might alleviate, bearing her troubles not only uncomplainingly but cheerfully. You always saw her with a smile, and there was a clear light in her sightless eyes which told of the perfect rest and peace of the mind within. Her husband was very kind to her, and it was a touching sight to see him with his strong limbs and sun-burnt face, leading his blind wife on a Sunday morning up the aisle of the noble old church, to kneel together at the altar, as many a time you might see him guiding her steps kindly and gently.

With minds so tempered by trial, how peacefully may glide away the life of the poor.

Oft when around the mountain's brow

The storm beats loud and shrill,

Deep in the winding vale below,

The charmed air is still.

Pity is not all for them, though none can doubt how much sorrow and suffering they are but too often called upon to bear. Sorrow and suffering will work their own ends, and where the heart is not hardened by it as it sometimes is, it is raised to a greater height than it could by any other means have attained. The "fennel's bitter leaf" steeped in the waters of the "goblet of life," in

-darkness and distress,

New light and strength they give.

THE CAPTIVE LADIES.

A SEQUEL TO A TALE OF THE TIME OF KING JOHN."

SOME months had passed since the destruction of the noble and lordly castle of the Baron of Severnside; months, not of joy to the two noble ladies who had once dwelt within its walls, but who were now removed by the commands of the king, who seized on their lands, to one of his strong fortresses in Normandy, where they were confined in rigorous captivity, and doomed to a fate unusual in those days, when devotion to noble ladies was deemed one of the peculiar duties of each knight, and the vow for their protection was solemnly taken by each squire on his admission to the orders of chivalry. But the irritable temper of King John seems to have cared less than ordinary for the fair sex, and these two noble ladies, who should have been protected for their helpless situation, and honoured for the bravery which had been displayed in their defence, were condemned to a life of solitude and lowliness, which can scarcely be conceived in these days, and would be considered by those brought up in all the luxuries of the nineteenth century, as perfectly unbearable.

A turret of the keep of a strong fortress in Normandy, near which stands the present town of Cherbourg, on the seashore, was the prison of the ladies Rhoda and Mary. Stunned and overpowered by the confusion that attended the storming of the castle, they could scarce collect their scattered thoughts, till the vessel to which they had been transported had pursued her course for some distance down the waters of the Severn, whose well wooded banks, scarcely clothed in the early green of spring, presented in some spots lovely patches of verdure, and in others still bore the dead and leafless appearance of winter. The vessel was filled with armed men; the loud shouts of victory dinned their ears, mingled, as the day advanced, with the roar of revelling and the sounds of drunkenness and intoxication. With veils wrapped closely round their faces, and accompanied by two of their women who were to be the

sharers of their captivity, the ladies sat alone in the stern of the ship, escaping, as far as possible, from the drunken scenes which surrounded them on the deck, which, however, they were not permitted to leave. The passage was stormy and difficult, and the captain and his men, bewildered by the wine and good cheer of which they had been partakers, brought the ship into great peril, so that the crew were often in danger and near perishing as they approached the coast of Normandy. The two unhappy ladies who dreaded the unknown future more than the awful past, seemed scarcely to care whether life or death were their portion: indeed it seemed as if the latter were more to their choice than the going whither they knew not, to a land strange to them, accompanied only by those who were little calculated to be the guardians of high and noble dames. At length in the darkness of night the vessel struck on the sands which lay towards the north-east of Cherbourg. The confusion among that drunken crew, where little or no order prevailed, was terrible: each seemed to seek only his own life; some few were saved by means of the boat, but the thought of each was only for himself, and the females of the party might have perished, had not the intrepidity of the lady Rhoda and the instinct of preservation, induced her to try and escape from the ship with her sister. They pushed into the midst of the confusion, and at length attained the boat, which was on the point of setting off from the sinking ship. The gallantry of the drunken soldiers seemed to return when they beheld two delicate females unprotected by those around them, striving to escape from the waters which threatened soon to overwhelm them, and place was made for them in the boat, and they were conducted safely to land and to the prison appointed for them. In a lonely room of the tower of Cherbourg were these ladies henceforth to dwell. The light which was admitted through the iron bars that covered the small entrance which was allotted to it, seemed but to mock their misery. Scarcely could they tell day from night, and the varying progress of the seasons was almost unknown to them. And yet surely there was little cause to keep such strict watch over two lonely ladies who, had they even wished to escape, had no place to flee to; their father had been killed in the struggle when his castle was destroyed, the king had seized on all the lands which should have been theirs, and, helpless and friendless, there was little to fear from two beings who appeared alone and forsaken upon earth.

Dreary indeed seemed their lot; few, if any, knew where they were confined; they had no earthly friend to love them or to care for them, and they often marvelled that the convent was not allotted to them, instead of their being compelled to pine away their days in the solitude of a dungeon: but it seemed as time passed on as if they were forgotten by all-by all but that One Who never deserts His children, and Who, when they are apart from all

earthly friends and consolations, is Himself nearer to them, and makes them more one with Him; and if He had not been their stay, they must have sunk from grief and loneliness.

It was at this time that the lessons of their holy and pious mother returned to them, and they sought to feel that He Who had appointed what they were to bear, knew what was fitted most particularly for the good of each; and though weak man might have thought that life useless which was spent away from all intercourse with their fellow creatures, alone and in captivity, and might have deemed death a blessing, they knew well that even there, they had duties to perform which must not be neglected, and with diligence and earnestness they set themselves to seek out what they were, and faithfully to fulfil them.

The first cheering thought that came into their minds as they looked around their prison walls was, that, though separated from all around, they were still members of that one holy Church, out of which no human hand could remove them; and that in the sweet communion of saints there existed a fellowship with every member of that Church, though placed far far apart from one another. By the blessing of their mother's love they had been taught to read, and as yet the holy Word of God was not considered as a sealed book to which they might not have access. Her piety had taught them to store their minds well with its holy truths; and the daily and frequent hours of prayer in which she had led them by her example as well as her lessons to join, seemed to form a bond of union between them and the whole Church, that enjoyed privileges from which they were excluded, and which nothing could break. From that lonely tower the hymns of praise appointed by the Church, ascended day by day. It might have seemed that their hearts, which could readily join in prayer, could have little sympathy in praise, when they had lost all that was once dear to them, but it was not so. The thought of blessings past came back with a sense of gratitude, and they felt that the power and inclination to give thanks were of themselves blessings for which they had much cause to give praise. They were full of gratitude and love. Praise was not their only duty; they knew how much strength they required, how utterly unable their frail nature was to bear all that was appointed for them; and, following the steps of their holy mother, they spent many an hour in prayer for grace and strength. Not only for themselves did they pray; they knew well that those who had doomed them to that lonely lot had need of their prayers, as well as that land given up to tyranny, and where oppression reigned and they felt that if their lives must be inactively spent ; if they could no longer tend the sick or comfort the aged, they might perchance procure them blessings through their prayers, and thus fulfil the work which it seemed was appointed for them. Thus they determined to spend the time allotted to them, and to strive

by the grace of God, to draw from this severe affliction, all possible profit and improvement to their spiritual and eternal state; and though at first it seemed as if much of their time could not be profitably employed, they felt that patient resignation was a no less imperative duty than active exertion, and that if the talents committed to them were improved to God's glory, they should not be required to give account of those of which they had been deprived, and which they had not wilfully buried in the earth. They strove to gain the graces of content and cheerfulness, and, though it was very difficult to discipline the will to that perfect submission which they felt they ought to struggle for, their endeavours were blessed to their own peace and happiness.

Many months passed thus; none were admitted to their society; their food was daily brought to them by an attendant, of whom they knew nothing, for the two faithful maidens who were to have shared their captivity had perished in the wreck ere they landed; the loneliness and desolation were so complete, that it seemed, notwithstanding their earnest prayers, more and more difficult to fix their minds where there was rest and repose. The dread of unknown dangers would discomfort them, and though they strove to feel that all would be ordered aright for them, and not to be careful or anxious for the future, a fear would disquiet them, more especially the Lady Rhoda, lest she should at some time be deprived of that greatest of blessings, the use of reason. She strove to gain resignation, and the soothing influence of her sister was actively exerted to calm and compose her mind. To each other they could pour out the fulness of their spirits, and they feared not to express in prayer and humble sorrow all their griefs to Him Who, they knew, was the Deliverer of the captives; for when earthly friends were gone and fled, they doubted not that He was more their FATHER and their Friend, and they knew that as they were made more like Him by suffering, He would knit Himself more closely to them, and guide and influence them secretly by His HOLY SPIRIT. They well knew that men could be only instruments in His hand, and that it was He Who had appointed their trial, and could remove it or mitigate it as He saw best, when it had worked in them the effect which He intended. Often did they long for the outward means of grace, for the advice and assistance of a minister of GOD's holy Church; and above all for that blessed food which was to nourish and strengthen their souls. The being deprived of that seemed indeed like being cut off from the communion of the faithful; and yet they knew and felt that He, Who had appointed those outward means of grace, could and did supply to them the inward consolations of the HOLY SPIRIT, and was nourishing their souls to everlasting life; though they could not now receive that Holy Sacrament with their mouths which had ever before been their comfort and their joy. But fears and sorrows perplexed them: they